


Holding Onto Strings Better Left To Fray

by boltschick2612



Series: Shattered [8]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Los Angeles Kings, M/M, POV First Person, Tampa Bay Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltschick2612/pseuds/boltschick2612
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vincent doesn't know when to leave well enough alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Onto Strings Better Left To Fray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueabsinthe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueabsinthe/gifts).



> For blueabsinthe, who pretty much did everything but write this for me, thanks! Told in first person, from Vinny's pov. Title from the Seether album of the same name. Thanks and enjoy!

I've been standing in the kitchen, nervously sliding my cell phone around on the counter, since the second Simon walked out the door. I knew from the start that it was a bad idea to let him leave, but he was just so excited about the idea of getting groceries and cooking us dinner. When I offered to drive him, he said he wanted to surprise me, and that my needless attention to details would only get in his way. Part of me thinks he just wanted to get out of the house, because neither one of us had left since the day he showed up on my doorstep and called me 'a damn fool'. That statement is just as true now as it was then. Simon was trying to help me put the pieces of my shattered life back together by doing something nice, something that would give me some small semblance of normalcy, and all I can think about was how he shouldn't have left. I should have done more to stop him.

The apprehension I feel is an uncomfortable mixture of worry and fear. I know the kind of effects post-concussion syndrome can have on a person, but Simon insisted that I was just being overly cautious, and that he was fine to drive. What I didn't have the heart to tell him was the fact I wasn't just worried about his condition, but also about things beyond my control. I had no control over the events that stole Brad from me, and what's to stop the same thing from happening again to Simon? I mean, it's one simple variable that's so easy to have spin out of control...a turn at the wrong moment, not braking soon enough...all things that could easily happen in the blink of an eye. I couldn't stop it from happening to Brad, and what if I fail, yet again? I couldn't bear to have someone else ripped from my life.

The fear I felt, however, was for myself. Having him leave to procure us dinner didn't just mean  he might befall the same fate as Brad and never come back. It also meant I would be alone, and that is probably the worst possible state for me to be in. If I'm alone, there's no distractions. I can't fixate on the sight of Simon, flitting around the kitchen, making coffee as he does every morning. There's no soft jazz music, his choice, of course, flowing through the house. There's absolutely nothing stopping my mind from going to all the dark corners of my psyche and dragging out all the demons I fought so hard to lock away.

As much as I wanted to blame the driver of the other car for taking Brad away from me, or Henrik for destroying everything Brad and I had, I couldn't stop myself from wondering how much of the blame should fall on me. If I had been more convincing, given him a reason to sign here like he begged me to, Brad never would have been navigating the streets of New York that night. The blame I placed on myself didn't just extend to keeping him out of New York, but away from Henrik as well. What had I done to make him feel as if he needed to seek solace in the arms of another? What was missing in his life, and what made him think that late night trysts with a random team mate were really the answer?

And was he...Henrik...really just a random choice, after all? Believe it or not, I'd rather think that he was just a matter of availability, and not preference. As much as it hurt to imagine Brad in Henrik's arms, it hurt more to think that there was love underneath it all.

Am I even sure any of that really happened? I mean, Henrik's words weren't so much an admission as they were a plea for me not to press further. When I tried to do the only thing I thought possible, and ask him for a definite answer, Simon had stopped me. At the time, his words spoke to me, and I thought I could let it go. I thought his serenity would permeate my life, and that I could go on forever, not knowing. The silence and empty space that was wrapped around me now was serving to prove me wrong.

I stare down at the phone as my fingers slide it around on the marble counter top, pushing on one end to send it spinning in a circle. The scraping sounds it makes are only mildly distracting, and a chorus of voices ring out in my head.

There was Henrik's voice ... _Torts didn't call me...Brad did. Right after it happened._

_Don't do this, Vincent. Not here, not now._

And, Simon's ... _What does it matter now? Will it change the past?_

_Enterrer les secrets avec les morts._

And, finally ... Brad's ... _Going to New York really is the best thing for me. I hope one day you'll realize it._

_Say you love me, Vin. I need to know you forgive me for not coming back there._

_....Don't do this, Vincent...._

_.....Enterrer les secrets avec les morts...._

_....I need to know you forgive me...._

My hand clamps down on the phone, stopping it from spinning in place and silencing the noise. The voices in my head, however, can't be silenced as easily. I know what needs to be done, what I need to do in order to quiet my mind. It's the only way...  
                            
  


                                                                                                     -X-

Dinner passed by me in a blur, and my mind was anywhere but on the bottle of red wine and the candles that illuminated the dim room. Half of the chicken Simon had cooked was still on my plate, as I had spent most of the past hour pushing it around on the dish instead of eating it. I tried to keep him from noticing how my eyes nervously shifted about the room, smiling and nodding at the right moments in his monologue. The one sided conversation dies down, and I'm pulled from my haze by the sound of his chair scrapping back over the tile floor. He shuffles to the kitchen with his empty plate in hand and a small smile graceing his lips. For the first time since he's been here, he seems truly happy.

"Missing this, hm?" My voice cracks, and I cringe a little as the question leaves my mouth. My intention wasn't to remind him of all the things he was missing, but sometimes my tongue seems to work faster than my brain. His smile disappears as he slides his dish into the sink, and I'm reminded of the fact that I'm not the only one that has had my world ripped apart. His health had taken hockey away from him, and his wife has taken his family from him. A twinge of jealousy courses through me, because at least for him, there's always the possibility of regaining the things he loved.

For me, Brad was gone, and nothing would ever change that.

I use the distraction of clearing the table, and carry my dishes along with the half empty wine bottle to the kitchen. He steps away from the sink, and slinks towards me, reaching out to take the plates. Avoiding his eyes isn't easy, shame over my comment washes over me, and my nervousness from earlier returns. His dark hazel eyes drift up to meet mine, and the small smile creeps to his lips again as he slides the wine bottle from my grip. My hands start to shake, and I try to hide that fact by putting them to work on the sink full of dishes. As I hear him shuffling around behind me, pouring another glass of wine before storing the bottle in the fridge, all I can think about is how I let him down. He tried to show me how to be strong, but I was weak.

_Enterrer les secrets avec les morts._

Those words...his words...were whispered to me at a time when I was on the brink of seeking out answers to questions that might have been better left alone. I thought I could do just that, bury the secrets with the dead, but the second that he wasn't around to stop me, to pry the phone from my fingers...

I let him down.

The clatter the dishes make as they shake in my hands grows louder when I feel Simon's light touch on my arm, causing me to jump. I had been so entrenched in my thoughts that I hadn't even noticed him move behind me until his fingertips were skating over my skin. My pulse races as his hand brushes over mine, and he frees the plate from my grip. His breath hits my cheek as he gently whispers into my ear.

"Leave these for later. I'll take care of it." 

He slides away from me and ambles towards the living room before I can muster a response. A crooked smile creeps to my lips, and I literally 'throw in the towel' as the white linen dish cloth I was holding lands amongst the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. The tile floor is ice cold under my bare feet as I trek back towards the table, intent on cleaning up the last remnants of the place setting. The burgundy place mats have held onto the heat from the dinner plates, are still a little warm to the touch. After the last of the mats have been collected, I shuffle over to the hall linen closet to put them away. A heavy sigh escapes me as I stand in front of the open closet, the sounds of the tv filtering in from the living room. With the place mats secured in their proper place, I was just about to slide the door closed, when I notice an unfamiliar box perched high up on the self. As soon as I reach up to retrieve it, and my fingers touch the smooth exterior, the knowledge of what the box holds comes rushing back to me.

Sometime last summer, Caroline had gotten the urge to start the project of arranging all of our photographs into books. She tired of it about halfway through, and ended up storing the rest of the loose photos in the box, and stuffing the box into whatever empty closet space she could find. I shake the box in my hands, and as I hear the sounds of the pictures shuffling loosely over each other, I can't help but think about how the photographic memories contained inside are a perfect representation of the memories stored in my mind.

Unorganized and chaotic.

I can't even trust my own memories anymore. I can't trust the recollections of Brad whispering to me, proclaiming his love and devotion. All my past experiences are telling me that Brad was supposed to be mine forever, and mine alone. He wasn't supposed to be gone, and I wasn't supposed to have to spend the rest of my life wondering if he had belonged to someone else in his final months.

But I didn't have to wonder any longer, because I had been weak. I had let down the one person who was trying to show me strength, and I had waited until he was gone to pull at strings better left to fray. Last time I had tried to seek out the truth, Simon had stopped me, but he wasn't around to stop me this time.

Why wasn't he here? Why didn't anyone stop me? Why didn't Simon stop me....why did I let him leave?

My thoughts are spinning out of control, and my trembling hands drop the box, spilling my memories to the floor. I stoop down, and run my fingers through the pile of photos. So many faces staring up at me, some familiar, some not. Right in the middle of the chaotic jumble, I see Brad, looking up at me and smiling. I fish the picture from the pile, and my eyes gloss over the rest of the picture. It was taken during the 1998 NHL Draft, I forget by whom, and Brad is flanked by Simon and myself. We all look so happy, smiling as if we had all the time in the world, and nothing would ever change...

I look up when I hear Simon's footsteps, and he walks over to me with a slight smile. "If you wanted help cleaning up, all you had to do was ask."

His features soften and the smile fades when he sees that I'm not laughing. Without any words, he bends down and starts to scoop the pictures up. I know I really should be helping him, but I'm frozen in place. My memories are fractured, spilled all over the place, and I don't even know what's real anymore. The irony of Henrik possibly being responsible for my current state, yet at the same time being the only person who could free me from it, was not lost on me.

Why hadn't anyone stopped me?

I don't even realize what I'm doing until I hear the dull sounds of the photograph being torn in half, right down the middle. Right through Brad's smiling face.

I look up to see Simon's eyes cloud with confusion and concern. His lips are slightly parted in shock, and he starts to speak, but I cut him off with an explanation before he even has the chance to ask me what the hell I was doing.

I can't hide it from him any more.

"I had to...I called Henrik."


End file.
